


if you're lonely (wake me)

by crunchyseaweed



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (mostly emotional), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fluff, Infidelity, Lost in Translation AU, M/M, Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Richie Tozier, a very touristy representation of Tokyo, author has visited Tokyo one (1) time, like extremely heavy, set in tokyo, you don't need to know the movie to read this!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchyseaweed/pseuds/crunchyseaweed
Summary: Richie Tozier finishes his first worldwide tour in Tokyo, Japan, feeling the onset of an early mid-life crisis.Or, the Lost in Translation AU that no one really asked for, but here it is anyways.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Original Male Character(s), Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	if you're lonely (wake me)

**Author's Note:**

> i lied for the drama – someone did ask for this fic. one time my friend [baz](https://twitter.com/superblums) said "hey alex lost in translation au when" in passing so i set out to write this monster. hey baz shoutout to you for planting these brain worms in my head. i dug out my itinerary and photos from when i visited tokyo back in 2018, so i’ve been to most of the places mentioned here and a lot of this was me reliving my experiences of japan through these characters. 
> 
> i want to give a huge thank you to my friends [domi](https://twitter.com/kaspsbrak), [em](https://twitter.com/emu_chipmunk), and [dianaothemyscira](https://dianaothemyscira.tumblr.com/) for reading this over and giving me feedback and suggesting corrections, and just putting up with my shit in general. and just thank you to everyone who encouraged me to write this even in the smallest way possible. 
> 
> i also made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3peLhl6XggoozGzkXYQG6l?si=sg19CAPSSWadMGc3pTIraQ) for this fic, if you’re into that. it’s basically all i listened to while writing this. 
> 
> lastly, if i missed any tags you think i should add, please leave a comment. 
> 
> title is from wake me by bleachers. that’s about it! please enjoy.

_Dear passengers, we would like to warmly welcome you to Narita International Airport. The local time is 5:34am. For your safety and comfort, we ask that you please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until the seatbelt sign is turned off._

Richie tunes out the rest of the announcement, unbuckling his seatbelt and waiting for the plane to come to a standstill. He switches his phone on, waiting for the flood of notifications to come in. His phone pings when it reconnects to the plane’s Wi-Fi, with multiple messages from his manager Steve, a couple from Mike, and none from his boyfriend back in LA, Simon. 

Tired, he sighs, and scrolls past the notifications from Steve and opens Mike’s messages.

 **From: Mike Hanlon**  
Hey man! Hit me up when you’re free from tour. I’m a little busy over the next few days but I'm sure I can fit you in on one day. Can’t wait to see you again! x

He shoots off a quick reply to Mike, and then one to Simon, telling him he’s just touched down in Tokyo. Ignoring the rest of Steve’s messages, he shoots him a text to inform him of his arrival and waits to get off the plane. 

He’s jostled through the airport, finding his luggage on the belt and the driver holding a sign with his name on it easily. The driver is polite, greets a simple _Good morning, Mr. Tozier_ , and Richie nods, following him to the car. 

–––

Richie tries to get some sleep in the ride over, exhausted from the flight despite having slept. He can’t wait to sink into his hotel bed, feel the fresh sheets on his skin. He leans his head on the window, streaks of neon from billboards flitting past in his periphery.

Steve greets him at the hotel, having gotten an earlier flight. A bellboy grabs his luggage for him, telling him they’ll bring it to his room. Steve introduces him to some industry partners and translators; he shakes their hands, accepts their business cards, stiffly thanking them. 

On the way up to his room, Richie hands Steve the business cards. 

“Flight go okay?” Steve asks, reaching into his pocket and passing Richie the key card to his room. Richie hums, closing his eyes and leaning against a corner, ready to fall into bed. The elevator dings, and Steve shoves lightly at his shoulder. “Alright, big guy, go get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow for show day.”

–––

Richie startles awake when it’s already dark out, and he lets out an exhausted groan. He peels himself off the bed, wincing at his joints cracking as he stretches them out. He feels gross, having fallen asleep in the same clothes he arrived in, and takes a quick shower.

The hot water eases the tension in his back slightly, and once he feels cleaner, he changes into comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants. Knowing it’ll be a while before he can fall back asleep, he sits by the bay window, peering out over the vast, lit up city of Tokyo. 

He grabs his phone, unlocks it and clicks on Simon’s contact. The line rings a few times before he picks up. 

“Hey, babe, sorry! I’m kinda having my run right now,” he pants, breaths short. 

“Hey, sorry to call so early, just wanted to let you know I’ve reached Tokyo,” Richie says quietly, his voice echoing in the empty room. 

“Yeah? How is it? Live up to its glitz and glamour?” 

Richie huffs a laugh. “Haven’t seen much of it yet, crashed the minute I arrived at the hotel.” 

“Well, let me know if it does, alright? I gotta get back to my run, babe, I’ll catch you soon. Get some rest. I’ll text you. Love you.” 

“Yeah, love you too,” Richie says, before hanging up. The words ring hollow, in Richie’s ears and in his mouth, and he quashes the ugly feeling in his chest. He lies down in bed, scrolling mindlessly through Twitter and Instagram, trying to fall asleep. The bright screen assaults his eyes, and he sighs and puts it away, staring up at the patterned ceiling. With a sigh, he gets out of bed and pulls on a hoodie, heading out the door.

–––

The bar is quiet, people scattered around at the tables. There’s a jazz band playing at the small stage, and Richie takes a seat at a large table, facing them. He orders two fingers of bourbon, and sips on it quietly. The lead singer shoots him a dazzling smile, her brown eyes sparkling, and he smiles back, raising his glass to her. The keyboard player watches him, too, a shy smile playing on his lips as his fingers flit easily along the keys.

A voice breaks his attention away from the band. “Hey, you’re Richie Tozier, aren’t you?” 

He looks in the direction of the voice, to see a couple of younger men sitting a few seats down. He blinks, nodding once, and their faces light up. 

“Dude, I’ve seen your movies! What’re you doing here? Are you doing a show?” One of them asks, and Richie tries his best not to grimace, focusing on the glass in his hand. 

“Yeah, tomorrow,” he mumbles. “Thanks for the support, I appreciate it.” He finishes his drink quickly, heading back up to his room.

–––

He wakes up to incessant knocking on his door, and he sits up in a blind panic, unsure of his surroundings for a split second before remembering he’s in a new location, new country, for his tour. He drags his hands over his face, heaving a deep sigh as he grabs his glasses and phone off the bedside table, checking the time and his notifications.

“Rich? Time to get up, buddy,” he hears Steve’s muffled yell through the door. 

“Yeah, yeah, fucking coming,” he mutters, opening the door to greet an unimpressed looking Steve, who’s already dressed in a pressed button down and tailored pants. He's holding two coffees, one in each hand. 

"Dude, come on," Steve sighs, handing Richie his coffee, before waving at Richie's general appearance. Richie's used to Steve's anxious show day antics; waking up early and making sure Richie does the same, putting a light breakfast down him alongside a coffee, followed by a mug of hot water with a teaspoon of honey and a slice of lemon in it. He's a good guy, an even better manager, and honestly, Richie couldn't ask for more. Richie just wishes he still experienced the buzz that Steve seems to have every show day. 

"Jesus Christ, Steve, we have like, three more fucking hours before soundcheck," Richie groans, leaning his forehead against the doorframe, closing his eyes. "How are you not fucking jet lagged?" 

"Who says I'm not? I just have to take care of you first." 

"Wow dude, I'm fucking honoured," Richie says, not moving from his position. Steve flicks him on the forehead. 

"I should hope so. You're paying me," Steve says, before snapping his fingers. "Come along now, chop chop. Take a shower, Rich, you stink." 

Richie rolls his eyes and shuts the door in Steve's face, downing his coffee and wincing at the burn on his tongue.

–––

The elevator ride down is crowded, and Richie gets huddled to the back. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, keeping to his corner. The elevator is silent, bar Steve’s fingers rapping away on his phone screen, probably answering emails. Richie’s taller than most of the people in the lift, and he looks up, doing a quick scan of the heads around him.

He meets the scowl of a shorter man dressed in a business suit near the front of the lift, his large, deep set eyes laced with annoyance. Bambi eyes, Richie thinks, before he raises an eyebrow at him, cocking his head slightly, widening his eyes as if to say what. The man narrows his eyes at him, and Richie bites back a laugh, momentarily wondering who shit in the guy’s coffee that morning. He feels like he should be offended by the guy’s annoyed glare, but all he wants to do is poke at the man, be annoying back. Before Richie can respond, the elevator doors open, and the man is shuffled out with the rest of the people. Richie scans the crowd in the lobby as he’s walking out, trying to find him. Steve is saying something, probably important, but it goes in one ear and out the other.

–––

The day passes in a blur, a whirlwind of blinding stage lights at soundcheck and forced smiles and laughter at lunch with Steve and the rest of his team. Fingers prodding and poking at his face and in his hair as they make him look presentable for the stage. The actual show that night isn’t much better; all Richie remembers is walking onto stage, opening his mouth to spew rehearsed lines that he’s spoken at least thirty times over the course of his tour, and walking off. Steve claps his shoulder the second he steps backstage, handing him another bottle of water, smiling and telling him he did great. Richie barely feels himself smiling back.

Back in the hotel, Richie stares at his phone, finger hovering over Simon’s number. Debating the need to call him. He presses it with a sigh, bringing to his ear, waiting. He stares at the ceiling, fighting the choking feeling in his throat, trying to will the hot tears threatening to spill over back into his eyeballs. 

“Hello?” Simon’s voice cuts the last ring in half, low and sleepy. 

“Hey,” Richie says, trying to smile. “I, uh, I just finished my last show.” 

“Oh, hey babe, that’s uh, that’s great,” Simon replies, slurring a little bit, and Richie hears him sigh. 

“Yeah, I just thought– I thought I should call you. I miss you,” Richie hears himself say. 

Simon huffs a soft laugh through his nose, before sleepily saying, “I miss you too, babe.” 

“You know I… I finished my tour today. It went great, I think. People were laughing and… and Steve was telling me how amazing it was when we were done and shit, and uh,” Richie pauses, laughing wetly. “I felt nothing,” he manages to get out. He tries not to sniffle too loudly, wiping at the tip of his nose with his knuckle. There’s silence on the other end, a little too long. 

“Hey Si? You still there?” 

He hears a snuffling noise through the phone. “Fuck, sorry Rich. I miss you too, but I had a late night and it’s like, 5am here.” 

“Fuck, I’m uh, I’m sorry. Get some sleep, I’ll call you later,” Richie hangs up before Simon can reply, throwing his phone somewhere on the bed before pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He tries to suppress the sobs threatening to break out of his chest, his eyes betraying him as he feels hot tears escape past the pressure of his hands. 

"Fuck! Fucking shit," he mutters to himself, furiously dragging his hands across his face, trying to remove any evidence of him crying before throwing a pillow against the full-length window. It thuds uselessly onto the floor. He sits there for a while, knees to his chest, his breath slowly evening out as he stares out at the city, its bright lights winking at him. He drops his head onto his knees, heaving a tired sigh as he climbs out of bed and grabs his key card, heading out the door.

–––

The bar is quieter than the day before, but the same jazz band croons their mellow tunes from the small stage. Richie sits at the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon and burning through half a pack of cigarettes. He stares at the amber liquid in his glass, swishing it around before downing it, lifting a hand to order another.

He lights up another cigarette when the waiter returns with a new glass of bourbon, and a napkin with writing on it. Richie drags it closer, and snorts at the message. 

_You look fucking awful. Hope this cheers you up._

“Hey,” Richie reaches out to stop the waiter. “Thanks, man.” 

“Oh, it’s not from me, sir,” the waiter laughs, before gesturing over to a table in the corner. “It’s from the gentleman over at that table.” 

Richie turns, peeking over his shoulder and is surprised to meet the familiar, intense gaze of the man from the elevator earlier that morning. He raises his glass towards him, giving him a small smile. The man gives him a polite smile back, raising his glass at Richie before turning back to talk to the other people at his table. In the warm, low light of the bar, his features are softer than when Richie first saw him. Richie pockets the napkin, smiling to himself, before finishing his drink and heading back up to his room.

–––

The day after a show usually goes something like this: Richie sleeps for about 14 hours straight, orders room service, falls asleep again, maybe watches some television, and spends the entire day in bed except to take a piss. It's not that he doesn't know that he should get out, see the city. Not that he doesn't know it'll probably make him feel less shitty, but he has about a week left in Tokyo, he’ll survive.

Other things happen sometimes, too. At around 6pm, he finally checks his phone. He's got a few notifications, missed calls from his mom and Simon, and a message from Simon asking him to call him back. A pit sits heavy in Richie's gut when he finally presses Simon's number, the feeling of dread building up in his shoulders as he listens to the rings, waiting for him to pick up. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Richie says, his voice hoarse from the lack of use that day. He winces, grabbing the plastic bottle of water from the bedside table and taking a sip. "Sorry I missed your calls." 

“Yeah, it's alright,” Simon says. His voice is crackly, and Richie doesn’t know if it’s because of the connection or something else. “Uh, I just thought we should talk.” 

The pit in Richie's gut grows, abruptly bursting into panic. He feels the sting behind his nose, his eyes suddenly welling up with hot tears. 

"Uh, this, uh, this can't wait?" Richie tries. He knows what's about to happen. "I'll be home in a few days, Si, we can talk about this then," he says quickly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. He hears Simon sniffle on the other end, the last nail in the coffin. 

"Babe, please," Richie tries again, whispers it. “I’ll… I’ll come home. I’ll get the next flight out. We can talk when I get there. Okay?” The desperation claws out of Richie’s throat, sharp and ugly. But it's moot – he knows he’s holding on to something he no longer has. They both are. 

"Rich, please,” Simon says, begs. His voice is strained, like he's holding back his own tears. A pause, a wet sniffle. "Don’t… don’t do that. This is long overdue and you and I both know it." 

And Richie knows he’s right. The spark that was initially there had fizzled out months ago, with them finding solace in each other’s familiarity. 

“Okay,” Richie says, relenting. Knows it’s pointless to fight it, so he doesn’t bother. “Okay,” he says again, softer. 

It isn’t ugly, the breakup. It’s quiet, resigned, and overall just fucking sad. Richie wishes he could be there to kiss Simon goodbye one last time. Tell him he’s sorry in person, for not being lovable enough, for not being there to love him enough. 

"Hey Rich? I– I'm sorry, for what it's worth, I really am. I'll move my stuff out before you're back, and I'll leave the key under your mat," Simon says, when it’s all over. 

"Yeah," Richie croaks. "I'm sorry, too. For uh, for everything, I guess." Simon laughs sadly. 

"It was good, Rich. Really good. I guess some good things don't last though," he hears Simon's voice crack at the last few words. Richie feels fresh, hot tears run down his face and doesn't bother to wipe them away. 

“No, I guess they don't,” Richie says, sniffling. “Um, I gotta go, Si. Have a good day, or night, whatever, alright? I'll–” he pauses, takes a breath. Saves the breakdown for when he hangs up. “I'll see you around.”

"Yeah, Rich. I'll see ya. Bye," Simon says, but doesn't hang up. As though he's waiting for something that could save them. Waiting for one of them to want to save them. Richie doesn't say anything. 

When Simon finally hangs up, Richie grabs the nearest pillow, smothering his face with it and lets out a scream into it. He curls up into the soft sheets of the massive king bed, tears and snot smearing on the blanket. It’s gross, and he says a silent apology to housekeeping in his head, but he can’t find it in him to care enough. 

A couple hours later, he drags himself to the bathroom. His eyes are puffy and red, and they’ll definitely be swollen tomorrow. He splashes his face with ice cold water, hoping it would soothe the puffiness slightly. After, he puts on yesterday’s jeans and a clean button up, deciding to head back to the hotel bar.

–––

He’s two shots of tequila and a bourbon deep when someone sidles up to his left, settling in the seat next to him at the bar.

“Rough day, huh,” the person says. Richie turns, his eyesight swimming a little, to see the same man he’s briefly encountered the past couple of days. _Bambi eyes_ , Richie thinks again, before belatedly taking in the rest of his appearance. He seems way more relaxed, draping his jacket over the back of the chair before sitting in it. He’s still in one of his business suits, Richie observes, but his eyes trail down to where he’s left the first couple of buttons of his dress shirt undone. 

Richie huffs a laugh through his nose, bringing his eyes back up to the man’s face. He quickly pulls a cigarette out of its crushed pack. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

“I’m Eddie,” the man introduces himself, before pulling a lighter out and holding it up for Richie, flicking it on. Richie leans closer and lets the man – _Eddie_ – light the tip of his cigarette for him. 

“Richie. It’s nice to put a name to your face, I’ve been calling you ‘Bambi Eyes’ in my head for the past two days,” Richie says, tensing immediately at his blatant honesty. He mentally slaps himself. 

To his relief, Eddie chuckles. “What the fuck.” 

Richie immediately relaxes, slowly grinning around his cigarette. “Yeah dude, you looked at me all angry in the lift the other day with those huge eyes. What was I supposed to think?” Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him, watching him with some kind of morbid curiosity. 

“Yeah well, the guy next to you typed so fucking loudly. It was annoying,” Eddie says. Richie holds out his pack to Eddie, shaking a loose cigarette out. Eddie stares at it, contemplating for a second. Richie almost retracts his hand when Eddie reaches out and takes it, bringing it to his lips and lighting it. Richie watches the smoke curl up around Eddie’s face as he takes the first puff and blows it out, his shoulders relaxing a little. A waiter comes up and takes Eddie’s order, and they lapse into a slightly awkward silence. 

“So… what are you doing here?” Richie asks, deciding to break the tension. 

“Here in the bar, or here in Tokyo?” 

“ _Tokyo_ , asshole. And well, I guess here in the bar works too.” 

“Work,” Eddie starts, tapping off his cigarette into the ashtray. “Playing buddy with people I might actually hate, avoiding my wife, and forgetting my kid’s 5th birthday.”

Richie chokes on the smoke that’s halfway down his throat, barking out a sudden laugh. “Fuck, dude,” he wheezes, pounding his fist against his chest a couple times. “Where do we start with that?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” Eddie says, pressing his lips together and rolls his eyes, trying to look unimpressed. Richie quickly glances down to Eddie’s left hand which is wrapped around his glass. A simple gold wedding band glints at him in the warm light. He looks back at Eddie, who’s raising his eyebrows expectantly at him, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. _Your turn_ , he seems to be saying. Richie takes a breath. 

“Okay, let’s see… I just finished my first world tour, and then my boyfriend broke up with me over the phone like, three hours ago,” the words tumble out of his mouth, quick and surprisingly honest. Richie doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Well, congratulations on the world tour part, it was a good show,” Eddie says, painfully earnest, before blanching slightly. Richie’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“You went to my show?” 

Eddie hides his face in his drink, a flush creeping up past his collar. “How the fuck else would I know?” 

“So you’re either lying or you have shit taste in comedy,” Richie says, and Eddie lets out a startled laugh into his glass. “Wait, are you a fan? Is that why you’re talking to me now? Did you want an autograph or something? Could’ve just asked,” Richie jests, instinctively reaches for a napkin with one hand and for the marker residing in the back pocket of his jeans with the other. The thought of it sits crookedly in Richie’s system. Eddie seems like a nice guy, but the idea of him cosying up to Richie for some kind of celebrity brownie points leaves a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Fuck off, no. I don’t want your autograph,” Eddie bats Richie’s hand away from the napkin, laughing. “I just happened to be here, and I also just happened to know who you were, so I got a ticket. You caught me, by the way. Your show was shit, who writes your stuff?” 

“Jesus, is it that obvious?” Richie mutters, covering his face with his hands. He can hear Eddie laughing at him, albeit not unkindly, and he can’t help but laugh along. “Fucking red handed. How’d you know?” 

“Just doesn’t seem like you. Your comedy, I mean.” 

“Huh.” 

They lapse into a somewhat comfortable silence. Richie watches a drop of condensation trickle down the side of his glass before he picks it up and downs the rest of it. He takes a quick peek over his shoulder to glance at Eddie. Eddie’s already looking back at him, eyes soft. 

“Well, there is _no way_ we’re unpacking much of that tonight,” Eddie says suddenly, crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. “Next round’s on me, what’re you drinking?”

–––

It isn’t as though the red flags aren’t waving frantically at Richie, but he wants to charge straight into them like a bull. He can’t seem to get Eddie out of his mind. Eddie, with his piercing gaze and his alarming charm. Eddie, who’s _married_ , with a fucking kid, nonetheless. Richie stares at the ceiling of his hotel room, his head pounding from the alcohol last night, and lets out a loud groan before sitting up.

He’s making his way out of the bathroom after a quick shower when he sees the note slipped under his door. _Hey dickhead_ , the scrawl reads, _see you again tonight? –Eddie_. For a moment, Richie forgets that they exchanged room numbers the night before. He laughs quietly to himself and hates that he finds it so fucking charming. He throws on a quick outfit for the day, patting down his pockets to make sure he has his essential items before grabbing the notepad provided by the hotel, writing out a quick note of his own. 

Eddie stays a couple of floors below him, and he feels particularly child-like when he takes a peek around the floor, making sure it’s empty before slotting the note under Eddie’s door. He bolts back into the lift after he does it, the juvenile excitement of it all coursing through his veins. His breath is short, and he leans against the corner of the elevator, panting slightly. A giggle bubbles up in his chest and bursts out from the ridiculousness of it all, and he feels his face getting warm. Suddenly, he hears a snort from the other corner of the lift, and he realises he hasn’t been alone this entire time. He smiles sheepishly at the other person, and they shoot him a knowing smile, turning their head back to face away.

–––

Crossing the Shibuya Crosswalk is less exhilarating than Richie expects it to be, but it’s exciting, nonetheless. He flits easily through the throngs of people, revelling in the feeling of being more anonymous than he’s felt in a while.

He dips into a chain ramen place, struggling slightly to order with the machine. The staff member is awfully patient, and he is quietly grateful for their ability to speak basic English. The ramen is hot and delicious, and Richie finishes it quickly, thanking the staff on the way out. 

He’s exploring the varieties of snacks and drinks available in a 7-Eleven when the jetlag starts to set in, and his eyelids start to feel heavy. He grabs a few snacks and beers, and sits outside Shibuya station, peeling open the ice cream mochi he’d gotten, and watches people queue up to take photos with a statue of a dog. Hachiko, he knows the name, it’s on the station exit sign. A quick Google search gives him the bare bones of the story, something about a dead owner and a loyal dog, waiting for him at the station until the day it died.

–––

Once he’s back at the hotel, he replies to Mike’s messages about dinner that evening. He steps into his room and sees another note from Eddie on the floor.

_Dinner sounds great. What did you have in mind? –Eddie_

Richie folds up the note, tucking it away into his wallet. He grabs the notepad off his nightstand and writes off another message to Eddie, informing him of dinner with Mike and his friends, before making a quick trip down to his room to slide it under his door again. 

The fatigue really sets in once he’s back in his room, and Richie slumps into the soft sheets, shutting his eyes.

–––

He’s rudely awoken by the hotel phone ringing a few hours later, and he blearily sits up, scrambling for the phone to make it stop ringing.

“H’llo?” Richie says, rubbing his eyes. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Eddie’s amused voice comes clearly through the speaker. “I tried knocking on your door earlier but seems like you were either out cold or not in there.” 

“Yeah, fucking jetlag,” Richie says. “Shit, what time is it?” 

Eddie laughs. “Don’t worry, I made sure to check on you early. We have about an hour before we have to leave. Go clean up and whatever, I’ll see you in a bit.”

–––

They get lost for 15 minutes trying to find their way from the train station. Eddie only loses his temper once at the Google Maps app on his phone, and Richie manages to only make fun of him for five minutes. They’re walking down a small road, Richie’s on the phone with Mike, and immediately hangs up when he sees the tall figure in the short distance from them.

Mike already has his arms stretched out for Richie to run into, enveloping him in a huge bear hug, laughing. When Richie pulls away, he sniffles a little, laughing too. 

“Fuck, I missed you, Mikey,” Richie says, his voice a little wobbly. “It’s been way too long.” 

“Oh man, I missed you too,” Mike says, his voice is wobbly too, but the charming grin on his face is as blinding as ever. Beside them, Eddie clears his throat, a little awkwardly. 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie blurts. “Mike, this is Eddie, a new friend. Eddie, this is Mike, he left me to come to this wonderful place ten years ago and has never looked back.” Mike smacks Richie’s shoulder playfully, before shaking Eddie’s hand and pulling him into a small, easy bro hug. 

Mike leads them into the restaurant, introducing them to a small group of people are chatting amongst themselves at their table. There’s Stan and Patricia, Mike’s girlfriend, Sara, and a few others whose names Richie forgets as soon as he hears them. They wave, a little awkwardly, and Richie quickly recognises a couple of their faces, but can’t seem to put his finger on where he knows them from. 

Richie and Eddie take a seat near the end of the table between Stan and Mike, and Mike passes them an English menu. Once they’ve decided on their food, Mike waves the waiter over and orders for them in Japanese, and Richie nods a thank you to the waiter as she walks away. 

Eddie gets up, asking for the bathroom, and the table soon falls into easy conversation. Stan leans closer to Richie. 

“So, how do you know Mike?” He asks. The ice in his glass of green tea clinks as he stirs it with his straw.

“Oh, college. I hosted open mic nights at one of the bars near campus and Mike came in every other week to sing his cute little songs,” Richie says, grinning, the fond memories rushing back. And then, “Hey, do I know you from somewhere? Could’ve sworn I’ve seen you before.” 

The woman next to Stan snorts. _Patty_ , that’s her name, Richie remembers. She wraps a hand around Stan’s bicep, leaning closer to Richie, her brown eyes sparkling playfully. They’re wearing matching bands on their left ring fingers, Richie notices. 

“Is that a pick-up line? Dude, it sucks,” she says, chuckling. 

“Wh– No! You guys just looked kinda familiar,” Richie sputters, and hears a snicker from his left. He turns to see Eddie there, already back from the bathroom. 

“You guys are from the band, aren’t you? At the Hyatt?” Eddie says, grabbing some cutlery for him and Richie from its holder and placing it in front of him. Patty shoots a finger gun at him. It starts to finally connect in Richie’s head, and he lets out a drawn out _ohhhh_.

“Wait, so how do you guys know Mike?” Richie asks. Stan explains that they were doing their postgrad at Osaka University, under the mentorship of Mike who was their TA before he moved to Tokyo. They’d reconnected and become close friends when Stan and Patty moved there, too. 

The food arrives in bowls, and Mike teaches them how to mix up their okonomiyaki ingredients and cook it on the flat stove in the middle of the table. Richie’s falls apart when he tries to flip it, earning a round of playful boos from around the table. He watches Eddie fumble with his chopsticks, wondering if they should’ve asked for a fork and knife instead. Richie snorts. 

“You use chopsticks like a dickhead,” he says, earning a glare from Eddie. The crease between his eyebrows deepens, his mouth set with stubborn determination, and he ends up still crossing his chopsticks. Richie tries to bite back a chuckle. 

“Like this,” Richie says, holding his own pair of chopsticks up. “Bottom one on your ring finger, and just move the top one.” He giggles as Sara shoots him a thumbs up from beside Mike. 

“Fuck off, it’s not that easy,” Eddie gripes. 

“Is too.” 

“Is not.” 

“Is too,” Richie repeats, watching in glee as Eddie’s face turns a deep shade of red. 

“Is not!” Eddie hisses. 

“Hey, we can ask for a fork for you, no shame,” Mike says, and Eddie’s face turns darker, but he finally relents, and Richie can’t help the cackle that comes up his throat. Eddie shoves his shoulder, but he breaks and starts laughing too. They pour the okonomiyaki batter onto the stove, cooking it and scraping it onto their plates, and Richie only burns his a little. It’s delicious, and Richie lets out a loud groan when he starts chewing. Eddie smacks him in the chest, and Richie grins at him, watching the flush creep up his neck to his ears. 

Out of a sheer need to push Eddie’s buttons, throughout dinner, Richie constantly reaches over to pick pieces of food off Eddie’s plate and into his own mouth. Eddie lets Richie get away with it, but after the third time Richie does it, he laughs and slaps Richie’s hand away, sending a chopstick flying in Stan and Patty’s direction. 

When they’re done, Richie leans back in his chair, satiated. “What else are we doing tonight, Mikey?” 

“We were thinking… karaoke,” Mike says, giving him a wry smile. Richie groans and Patty whoops, throwing a fist in the air. 

“Karaoke sounds fun, actually,” Eddie pipes up from his seat. 

“Eddie, Eds, don’t betray me now,” Richie pleads, dramatically Eddie’s hand. Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away, crossing his arms. 

“So… karaoke?” Mike asks, donning a shit eating grin. 

“Karaoke!” Everyone else cheers in unison, to which Richie rasps out a resigned “Fine!”

–––

They get a large room, with enough space between the screen and couches for a makeshift stage if they desired the theatrics. Stan and Patty collapse into one of the couches, huddling together and laughing at something on Patty’s phone. Before Richie can decide where to sit, Eddie’s already grabbing his wrist and dragging him over to the couch next to Stan and Patty’s.

“Alright alright! Any requests?” Mike asks, poking around at the machine, already queuing up a bunch of songs for them. The room erupts into chaos, their voices yelling over each other, and Mike collapses into laughter. 

“Guys! Go fucking easy on me, I am one person!” Mike yells. They end up squeezing past each other taking turns going over to the machine to queue their songs, Richie and Eddie getting Mike to help them navigate the buttons and choosing their songs. 

A waitress comes in and takes drink orders for all of them, and Richie and Eddie watch everyone take their turns for their songs. Richie laughs and cheers them on from his spot on the couch as Stan and Patty duet _Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now_ , dancing around the large space. 

“Hey! This isn’t fair, dickheads! Patty can actually sing!” Eddie yells out over the loud music. Richie jeers playfully in agreement but jumps up and wraps his arms around Stan and Patty’s shoulders, dancing and singing along with them. He turns around, and Eddie’s relaxed into his spot on the couch, watching them with an amused smile. Richie gestures for him to join them, putting on his pleading eyes when Eddie shakes his head. He eventually manages to drag a protesting Eddie off the couch and between him and Patty, getting him to sing along. 

Richie hears the first few chords of the next song before he sees Mike walking over to shove a mic in his hand. 

“Oh, fuck you, Mikey,” Richie mutters, quickly swiping the tears welling up in his eyes. He sees Eddie’s concerned look, but he suddenly feels 27 again, holding Mike tightly in his arms as they say their goodbyes to each other at the airport. 

_There is freedom within, there is freedom without  
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup  
There's a battle ahead, many battles are lost  
But you'll never see the end of the road  
While you're traveling with me_

The song had played at their graduation, and was the last song they sang together at their last karaoke session Mike had dragged him to before he left. Richie takes a breath before holding up the mic, singing the chorus together with Mike.

_Hey now, hey now  
Don't dream it's over  
Hey now, hey now  
When the world comes in  
They come, they come  
To build a wall between us  
We know they won't win_

As the song finishes, Richie’s close to what he was at that last karaoke session: a blubbering mess. Mike has an adoring smile on his face, but his eyes are shining slightly too. He wraps Richie up in a hug, pressing his face into Richie’s neck.

The rest take their turns while Richie sits back down with Eddie, and they don’t talk apart from shared glances and soft smiles. Singing along to the songs they know. Piano chords strike, and Eddie’s face lights up.

“Oh, I love this song,” Eddie exclaims, and Stan presses a mic into Eddie’s hand, inviting him to sing with him.

_I wanted to be with you alone  
And talk about the weather  
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face  
Won't escape my attention  
You keep your distance with a system of touch  
And gentle persuasion  
I'm lost in admiration, could I need you this much?  
Oh, you're wasting my time  
You're just, just, just wasting time_

Richie thinks he’s imagining it, when Eddie shyly turns his way as the song leads into the chorus. He locks eyes with Eddie, and swallows hard when he starts singing.

_Something happens and I'm head over heels  
I never find out till I'm head over heels  
Something happens and I'm head over heels  
Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart  
Don't, don't, don't throw it away_

Something swells in his chest. Hopeful and warm. Stan shoots him a playful look, and then glances at Eddie, and back at Richie again, as if he knew something Richie didn’t. Stan winks at him, and he’s thankful for the darkness of the room, feeling the warmth bloom in his cheeks. 

__Eddie plops down beside him when the song is over, smiling and panting from singing his lungs out. He looks at Richie, his eyes soft. Reaches a hand out to squeeze Richie’s thigh once, firm and assuring. Richie pretends like it doesn’t leave a burn._ _

–––

Richie excuses himself a while later, shuffling out of the room into the hallway. He spots an ashtray at a nearby table, and he takes a seat on a bench beside it. It’s quiet, bar the muffled cacophony of singing and yelling from the rooms. He lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Lets the nicotine ease the tension in his head.

“Hey, there you are,” Eddie says, taking a seat next to Richie, leaning his head against the wall. His face is lightly flushed and shiny, his voice slightly croaky from singing too loudly. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, just… overwhelmed. Loud.” 

Eddie laughs softly. “Yeah, I get that.” 

Richie holds his open pack out to Eddie, shaking it. “Want one? Fresh pack.” 

“Nasty habit,” Eddie murmurs, tipping his head to look at Richie, but pulls a cigarette out, letting Richie light it for him. Richie takes in Eddie’s slightly dishevelled appearance; his hair coming loose from the gel’s hold, a curl flopping into his face, his neatly pressed dress shirt unbuttoned at the top. The smoke, coming out his mouth and nose, curls up and around his angular face, framing it. It sparks heat low in Richie’s gut. 

“So, you and Mike?” Eddie asks, tentatively. Richie isn’t sure what the question is exactly. 

“Me and Mike,” Richie says, not offering more. Eddie huffs, struggling to follow his question up. Richie takes mercy on him. 

“We took the same drama elective in college. Told me he liked my shirt and I immediately fell in love with him or something. I mean, look at him. Look at me,” Richie says, trailing off into a laugh at the end. 

Eddie makes a warbled noise of protest. “You’re not so bad.” 

Richie feels his breath catch. “Gee, thanks Eds. You know, you’re not so bad yourself,” he drawls, grinning when he earns a light shoulder shove, but continues. “Yeah, no, but Mike’s great. We were together, y’know, dated momentarily. But decided we worked better as best friends. Now we’re here, I guess.” 

“That’s nice,” Eddie says, after a brief moment of silence. “’S nice that you guys remained friends.” Richie hums in agreement, crushing his finished cigarette into the ashtray. He lights another. 

“My relationships have never really worked out,” Eddie blurts. “I mean, I’m married, but…” Richie holds his breath, waits for him to finish. “Yeah, that’s not working out so well. As you can probably tell.” 

“Lemme guess, you’re staying together for your kid?” Richie asks, and immediately cringes at his bluntness. 

“Yeah, a little, I think,” Eddie just laughs, a little sadly. “She’s a great kid though, fucking smartass.” 

Richie smiles. “Bet she takes after your potty mouth.” 

“Ah fuck, you have no idea. Myra hates it.” 

The mention of Myra’s name is like a douse of ice water over Richie’s head. His entire body tenses with guilt, despite having not even done anything remotely physical with Eddie. 

“So, what’s yours and Myra’s deal? Classic ball and chain scenario?” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole, Rich,” Eddie says. The words come out sharp, warning. Richie flinches, and mutters an apology. Eddie reaches for the cigarette pack and lighter between them, lighting another one. “I mean, we got married for a reason. I’m sure we were in love at one point, but… I don’t know, I feel fucking terrible saying this, but it’s like a chore, you know?” 

“Loving her or being with her?” 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but pauses, contemplating the question. “Both,” he says. “I think.” 

The conversation stills, the words stewing between them. “I… You think you can work it out? With her?” 

Another pause. Richie watches Eddie, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard, the way he closes his eyes sadly and shakes his head. 

“I don’t think so. And it’s not that it’s impossible, it’s… it’s that I don’t want to, and it fucking sucks, man,” Eddie says wetly, sniffling softly. “God, it’s gonna fucking suck for Avery, fuck.” 

Richie hums, not sure what to say. He reaches out, squeezing Eddie’s thigh, firmly, like Eddie had earlier. Rubs his thumb there, comforting. Eddie takes a final puff of his cigarette, and snubs it out in the ashtray. Eddie places a hesitant hand over his, relaxing when Richie doesn’t flinch away and lacing their fingers together. He leans closer to Richie, tentatively placing his temple against Richie’s shoulder, as if asking for permission. Richie adjusts his body lower, making it easier for Eddie to comfortably rest his head on his shoulder, and leans his head against Eddie’s. 

“You know, I get it,” Richie says, breaking the silence. Eddie squeezes his hand, encouraging him to go on. “When Simon broke up with me, I didn’t even fight it. I loved him; I still think I love him a little, but it was just… not working out, I guess. I think this tour was like, the last straw.” 

“How long were you two together?” 

“Two years. My longest relationship yet,” Richie says, self-deprecating laughter bubbling out of his chest. “Imagine that, being 37 and your longest relationship lasted barely two years. And you didn’t even try saving it.” 

“At least you didn’t marry him within a year of knowing him because it felt like the correct thing to do,” Eddie says. Richie laughs, a little incredulously. 

“You competing with me now, Eds?” 

Eddie huffs, and Richie’s pretty sure he rolled his eyes at least once. “Shut up, I’m just saying.” Richie chuckles, and he squeezes Eddie’s hand lightly. 

“You know, you kept pretty hush about the relationship,” Eddie says, his tone quieter, hushed. “For a celebrity, I mean. I didn’t see anything about a Simon, most tabloids talked about you and uh… Beverly Marsh?” 

Richie snorts. “Did you fucking Google me?” 

“No,” Eddie says, far too quickly, and then, “Yes.” Richie laughs, his body shaking, and Eddie’s head gets jostled off his shoulder. Eddie straightens up, scowling and tugging Richie’s arm to move him back to their original position. 

“Well, it may come as a surprise to you, Eds. But I’m not out. Go figure,” Richie says. 

“Yeah, I kinda got that now,” Eddie mumbles into Richie’s shoulder. “Are you… are you ever gonna come out?” 

It’s not like Richie hasn’t thought of it. How easy it would be to draft a tweet, press the send button, and then throw his phone away for a while. How he would have to deal with the fallout of his aggressively heterosexual comedy career and the unavoidable abuse hurled his way by both fans and haters alike. 

“Sorry, that was a shitty question to ask,” Eddie says, his tone slightly more concerned when Richie doesn’t answer. 

“No, it’s fair,” Richie says. “I’ve thought about it, but it’s all so… scary. It would be so easy, y’know? To just announce it and fuck off for a few days, but I can’t… I can’t imagine coming back like everything’s normal after that. It fucking terrifies me.” 

“Well, your definition of normal would probably change,” Eddie says through a yawn. And then he lets out a small, disbelieving chuckle. “I get it, though. I’m… I’m still working out how I’m going to come out to my wife and kid. I honestly don’t know how they’ll take it. Myra’s gonna shit a brick, probably.” 

Richie lets the words sink in, trying not to get too happy about the confirmation of Eddie’s sexuality. He isn’t sure what to say, at first, so instead of replying, he lets out a small whistle, like an asshole. 

“That’s a lot,” Richie breathes out, finally. Eddie scoffs, muttering a _no shit, Sherlock_ under his breath. “Is she like, homophobic?” 

Eddie sits up suddenly and narrows his eyes at Richie. “I don’t know if I’m offended that you think I would’ve married a homophobe.” 

“Hey, I’m just saying! Sometimes you think you know people, and then–” 

“No, she’s not. I don’t think so, at least,” Eddie says, contemplating for a second. And then, firmly, “Okay, no, she’s not.” He relaxes a little before continuing. “But it’s gonna suck anyways.” 

“For sure,” Richie mutters. Eddie plops his head back down on Richie’s shoulder, getting comfortable again. 

Eddie’s hand goes lax in Richie’s after a while, and his head gets heavier on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Hey, sleepyhead. Past your bedtime?” Richie whispers. Eddie snuffles, and leans in closer, mumbling something incoherent. Richie reluctantly unlaces their fingers, patting Eddie’s thigh softly, and Eddie inhales sharply, blinking awake.

“There you guys are,” Stan’s voice breaks them apart. He’s standing a few metres away, and waves them towards their room. “C’mon, let’s do _Bohemian Rhapsody_ before we leave! Our time’s almost up."

–––

Eddie falls asleep on him in the cab ride home, his cheek smushed against his shoulder. Their pinkie fingers are hooked loosely, resting on Richie’s thigh, and Richie realises belatedly that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. Possibly hasn’t been wearing it for the entire time that they were together. All that’s left is a faint tan line, taunting but comforting. He sucks in a shaky breath, and slowly links their fingers together, palm to palm. Eddie tenses up slightly, his body going still for a split second, but he tightens his fingers around Richie’s, not saying a word.

When they reach the hotel, Richie gently shakes him awake, paying and thanking the cab driver. He presses a gentle hand to the small of Eddie’s back as they’re walking into the lobby, as if he would fall asleep again any moment. 

Eddie shoots him a tired and confused look when Richie follows him out of the elevator onto his floor. 

“Just making sure you don’t fall asleep in the hallway, Eds,” Richie assures him, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Eddie pats his own to find his key card, tapping it to open the door. He turns to Richie, before parting ways for the night. 

“Hey, uh, thanks. For tonight. I had a lot of fun,” Eddie says earnestly, before yawning. 

“No problem man, I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow?” The question hangs in the air, hopeful.

Eddie smiles, and nods. “I have the day off, so I’m all yours.” Something hot and prickly shoots up Richie’s spine at the last few words, and all he can do is shoot him an awkward thumbs up, hoping he’s not wearing his dumb crush all over his face. 

“Well, goodnight, Eds,” Richie says softly, and turns to walk towards the lift. The sparky feeling has mellowed out, buzzing and itching beneath his skin. 

“Hey Rich?” Richie turns, maybe too quickly, when he hears Eddie call his name. “Could you… could you just come here for a sec?” 

Richie walks back to stand before him, and before he realises it, he’s got his arms full of Eddie. He revels in the feeling of Eddie’s arms looped around his waist and lets out a soft _oh_. He melts into the hug, slowly looping an arm around Eddie’s waist, the other snaking up to hold the back of his head. Richie breathes in the scent of Eddie’s shampoo, a faint woody scent. Eddie presses his face into Richie’s neck, mumbling a muffled _thank you_. 

“You already said that, Eds,” Richie says, chuckling, and Eddie tightens his arms around him. 

“No,” Eddie says. “For listening to my dumb shit.” 

Richie rubs a palm on Eddie’s back, and he keens, leaning into the touch like a cat. “It’s not dumb, silly. You listened to my shit too,” Richie whispers. It’s overwhelming, really, to have Eddie all warm and pliant in his arms. He wants to swallow him whole. 

He almost whines when Eddie slowly pulls away from the embrace and looks up to meet his eyes. Then, swift and soft, Eddie presses a quick kiss to Richie’s cheek, whispering a rushed _Goodnight, Rich _, his face flushed, smiling, as he retreats into his room before Richie can really react. He’s left to stand there, stunned, rubbing the spot on his cheek and grinning like a fool. And he’s fucked. He’s so fucked.__

____

–––

The sunlight streams through the window, harsh and blinding, high in the sky when he finally opens his eyes. Despite sleeping late due to an Eddie crisis till the wee hours of the morning, Richie wakes up feeling semi well rested. He chalks it up to excitement, knowing he gets to spend the day with Eddie. He scrolls through his messages to find some food recommendations Mike had sent him, finding a place relatively nearby to have a late lunch at.

They eat at a small ramen shop called Fuunji in Shinjuku. It’s tiny, with people packed to the walls, waiting for their turn to have a seat. The queue stretches across the small street the shop is located on. 

They punch in their order for the Special Dipping Noodle, again, based on Mike’s recommendation, on the vending machine. Richie goes to slot money in, just to get his hand slapped away by Eddie. Richie blinks at him when he pulls out his wallet and insists he’ll pay. 

The chef calls them over to their seats, and the noodles are set in front of them. Eddie’s better with his chopsticks this time around, his face set with determination, but he still ends up crossing them. He seems much too embarrassed to ask for a fork, especially with a close to zero grasp on the Japanese language. Richie pokes his side, teasing, and gets a warning smack on the wrist. 

They eat quickly, feeling the pressure of waiting patrons standing behind them as they eat. Richie shoots a smile and a thumbs up of approval to the chef when they’re done and make their way back out into the streets. 

“I’m so fucking full,” Eddie announces at the same time Richie says, “I could eat some fucking ice cream right now.” They stare at each other, a silent face off that lasts a total of five seconds before they burst into giggles. 

They get ice cream from a 7-Eleven located near the subway station, unwrapping it and digging in before they hop on. 

“Where are we headed to next?” Eddie asks, his mouth stained a light green in the corners from his matcha ice cream. 

“Are you allergic to cats?” Richie asks, before taking a chunky bite of his ice cream, knowing it pisses Eddie and his sensitive teeth off. He’d made a point to make it known to Richie just a minute earlier. Eddie grimaces, but shakes his head, looking slightly intrigued. 

Richie grins. “I have just the place for us.”

–––

They find it easily, with the help of Google Maps and with it being not too far from the station. They walk past the buzzing crowds of Sunshine City to the much quieter Higashi Ikebukuro Central Park. Eddie looks around, observing the few people sitting around. A man sits near the entrance, looking worn out and tired, with a fat grey cat curled up in his lap.

“You know, I was kind of expecting something else, like a café, or something,” Eddie starts, but is cut off by Richie. 

“I read somewhere that some of them drug the animals to make them more docile. I just wanted to be safe,” Richie explains, before walking around to explore the bushes. 

Eddie takes a seat on a nearby bench while Richie walks around. Richie clicks his tongue, muttering _here kitty kitty_ , in hopes of finding and attracting one. He finds a chunky black cat, scowling at him from the bushes. Richie gasps out an excited hello, and whips around excitedly, about to call out to Eddie, to find Eddie with a cat already in his lap. 

“So, you didn’t tell me you were a cat whisperer,” he says, walking over and watching Eddie stroke the white and ginger cat curled up in his lap. It closes its eyes, tilting its head up to let Eddie scratch its chin. Eddie looks up at him, a soft grin spread across his face, and it’s a feat in and of itself that Richie doesn’t melt into a puddle right there and then. 

“I thought cats weren’t affectionate,” Eddie says, looking back down and cooing at the cat. Richie feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust. 

“Many aren’t. They pretend I don’t exist most of the time,” Richie says flatly. Eddie laughs at that, and the sudden noise makes the cat jump up in shock, walking away from them. Eddie immediately cries out a soft _nooooo_. 

Richie doubles over laughing. “Ah, you’ve just experienced cat rejection. How does it feel?”

Eddie crosses his arms, looking more upset than he should be, and Richie just pats his shoulder. 

“Don’t be such a dramatic baby,” Richie drawls, and Eddie looks down at the hand on his shoulder, feigning offence. “Most cats just want affection on their own terms. My cats hate me unless it’s feeding time, then I’m their favourite. Otherwise they mostly mind their own business.” 

“That’s sweet,” Eddie murmurs, watching the woman talk excitedly to the cats swarming around her as they wail dramatically, as she takes various cans of food out of the plastic bag. “Bet you miss your own cats, huh. What’re their names?” 

“Bertha and Egg.” 

Eddie’s face pinches, amused. “Bertha and… Egg? What the fuck?” 

“Hey! They’re not even here to defend themselves, don’t fucking hate on them!” 

“I’m hating on _you_ ,” Eddie wheezes, the corners of his eyes creasing. “One of them has an old lady name and the other is just fucking Egg.” 

“They came to me named, alright. I was too lazy to rename them, and they already responded to their names,” Richie says petulantly, crossing his arms. Eddie just laughs harder.

–––

Eddie invited him to his room once they were back in the hotel.

“Uh,” Richie had started, and he saw Eddie connect the dots in his head right in front of his eyes. 

“Not like that, Christ, just to hang out or something,” Eddie scowled, his cheeks flushed red. So Richie obliged, and now they’re hanging out in Eddie’s room, Eddie sprawled out on the large bed while Richie sits at the bay window.

Richie watches the city lights twinkle at him in the greyish pink twilight, and Eddie suddenly breaks the silence. 

“Do you think you’ll ever come back here?” 

Richie blinks. “To the Hyatt?” 

Eddie sits himself up, leaning back on his elbows. His hair is slightly mussed up, sticking out at the back. Richie wants to reach out and smooth it down. “No, dumbass. Tokyo. Or anywhere else in Japan.” 

Richie thinks about how he came to the city in a blur. The events that are now hazy vignettes of heartache and dissonance, like faded memories so far behind him, despite arriving barely five days ago. It reminds him of an impending deadline, a tomorrow that takes him away from it all and back to real life. 

He clears his throat. “I don’t know,” he starts. “I mean, Mike’s here. I don’t think he’s moving any time soon, so yes. Probably. Why, what about you?” Richie says, his eyes following the tiny cars creep along the roads. It’s weird, almost, feeling some kind of connection to a city he’s barely seen. 

“I wanna go to Osaka,” Eddie says. “Lots of food. Universal Studios.” 

“There’s Disneyland here, dipshit.” 

“That’s not Universal Studios,” Eddie asserts, and Richie has a sudden vision of holding Eddie’s hand on a rollercoaster, grasping it so tightly his fingers turn white. A reminder of something he’s so close to having, yet so far. He blinks it away, shaking his head. 

He doesn’t know why he says it, jarring and out of turn. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Richie says, the words tumble out of his mouth, souring on the tip of his tongue. He hears Eddie inhale sharply. “I… I probably should’ve said that like, days ago. Sorry.” 

Eddie’s quiet, and Richie peeks over at him. He’s staring at the ceiling, still starfished with his legs hanging off the side of the bed. 

“Okay,” he hears Eddie say. Barely a whisper. Something akin to anger builds up in his chest, unwelcome. 

“Okay? Is that… is that all you have to say?” Richie presses, and his eyes start to feel hot for some reason. The high he’s been riding from being around Eddie all day starts to crash down around him. 

Eddie sits up onto his elbows again, his brows furrowed together. “Should I be saying more?” 

“I don’t– I don’t know. Maybe?” Richie says, his mouth moving faster than his brain. “I just felt like we had– no, like we _have_ something here!” Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, but nothing comes out. It spurs Richie on, rambling like a car speeding down an empty highway, “Just, the hand holding, everything! We have something, don’t we? And all you have to say is ‘okay’ to me leaving?” 

“Rich,” Eddie says, softly. “Please stop.” He’s sitting up now, looking down at his hands, not even looking at Richie. Richie crosses the room and kneels in front of Eddie, grabbing his hands. 

“Please, Eds. I need you to say something. I need to know it’s not just me,” Richie pleads, begs, and he feels the familiar sting behind his nose. Eddie sniffles, his large eyes watery, and his fingers tighten slightly around Richie’s, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Richie presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes. Swallows down the ugly sob threatening to burst out of his chest. “Please, Eds. Please.” 

“It’s– It’s not just you,” Eddie whispers. Reaches out a hand to hold Richie’s neck, his thumb rubbing against his cheekbone, wiping away the hot, betraying tear that escaped past his eye. “But I… I’m still with Myra, I have to work that out. I can’t do that to her, Rich, it’s not fair.” 

“Shit’s not fair, Eds. We could be good. Please, we could be so good together.” It’s petty, Richie knows, his need to hold on to whatever they have spiny and ugly, creeping up his ribs and around his heart. 

“You can’t say that, Rich. C’mon,” Eddie murmurs. “You’re going back to your life, and I have to go back to mine. I know– This fucking sucks, Rich, I know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

Richie can’t stop the tears now, they run down his face, hot and bitter. He lets out an ugly sob, letting it all sink in. He opens his eyes, and Eddie’s crying too, their foreheads still pressed together. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers hoarsely, again and again. He doesn’t let go of Richie; holding the pieces of him together. 

A loud ringing pierces the tension of the room, coming from one of their phones. Richie sits back on his legs, wiping the snot and tears away with his hand and rubbing it off on his jeans. 

“It’s probably mine,” he mutters, his knees cracking as he stands up and walks towards to noise. It’s not his. Eddie’s phone screen is lit up with the name Myra, her contact photo of her, Eddie, and Avery, smiling brightly for the camera. It’s the final blow to his fractured heart. 

“It’s uh, it’s your wife, Eds,” he says, turning around and handing the phone to Eddie. Eddie has a brief look of panic on his face, but quickly schools his face into something neutral, taking the phone from him. “Sorry, I’ll uh, I have to go pack. For tomorrow. I’ll see you around or something.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response before he grabs his jacket and is out the door, fully breaking down once he hears the door latch behind him.

–––

“Well, someone’s not having a good day.”

Richie startles slightly, his head snapping up from miserably staring the condensation pooling around his glass. Stan’s sitting in the seat next to him, taking a break from the first half of their set, and the bartender slides him a drink. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Stan asks, taking a sip. 

“Not really, no,” Richie says, downing what’s left of his bourbon and ordering another. 

Stan quirks an eyebrow. “Want a distraction, then?” 

Confusion knots in Richie’s brain. “Uh, I’m not sure we’re on the same page here. Aren’t you– aren’t you with Patty?” He sputters. “You guys have matching rings, no?” 

“It’s open, for now,” Stan explains, laughing. He nods his head over to Patty chatting up and laughing with a young woman, further down the bar. Richie raises his eyebrows, in slight disbelief. “We already know we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, but we’re young. Figured we might as well have some fun with it. So, about that fun, what do you say?” 

“I’m not gonna be a lot of fun, though,” Richie says, wincing at the burn as he gulps down his fresh glass. 

“Well, let me be the judge of that,” Stan says, before he’s sliding out of his seat. “If you’re down, I’ll just find you back here after I’m done. Or you can go back to your room, it’s not a big deal. Promise.”

–––

Richie stays till the end the set, figuring that he might as well enjoy his last night in Tokyo. He’s back in his room, with Stan straddling him, grinding their dicks together and pressing his lips against Richie’s. He presses his thumbs into Richie’s nipples, and Richie gasps against his lips. Stan takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, deepening the kiss. His grip on Stan’s waist tightens, pushing his hands under his shirt slightly to feel the warm soft skin on his lower back.

“Off, take this off,” Richie mutters, pawing at the hem of Stan’s shirt, and Stan separates his lips from Richie’s neck to pull his shirt over his head, throwing it onto the floor, with Richie following suit. Stan reattaches his lips to Richie’s neck, placing soft kisses along Richie’s jawline, letting out a low moan when Richie reaches down to palm at his dick through his jeans. 

“Can I?” Stan asks, sitting up and reaching for Richie’s belt buckle. Richie nods, and Stan undoes his belt swiftly, reaching into his boxers to finally get his hands on his dick. 

“Fuck!” Richie throws his head back against the pillow at the skin to skin contact, and Stan laughs, pressing kisses down Richie’s chest. Richie’s body feels like it’s been set alight, and his head swims with pleasure. Just as Stan is about to pull off his jeans, Richie hears a knock on his door. 

He sits up, and Stan presses a gentle hand to his chest. 

“Ignore them,” Stan says, before leaning in to press a searing kiss to Richie’s lips, biting softly at his lower lip. “It’s probably just housekeeping or something.” 

“At midnight?” Richie asks, laughing into Stan’s mouth. 

Stan’s tugging his jeans halfway down his thighs when the knocks resume, more frantic this time. Stan lets out a frustrated groan into Richie’s chest, and Richie laughs, patting his back twice, telling him to roll off. Stan starfishes on the bed as Richie gets up and pulls his pants on, trying to look at least half decent for whoever was out there. The knocks come again. 

“Give me a sec!” Richie calls out, shoving his glasses onto his face and walking towards the door. He swings it open, ready to tell the person to come back later, and is met with Eddie. 

“Hey, I’m– Can we talk? Please?” Eddie asks, his eyes wide, beseeching. They’re tired and red around the edges, like they’d been rubbed raw. He hasn’t changed his outfit from earlier, either, his shirt tucked out and crumpled. 

“Uh,” Richie says dumbly, sudden guilt rushing from his synapses. He instinctively closes the door slightly, hoping Eddie doesn’t notice his messy hair from Stan running his fingers through it. 

“Is it okay if I come in? Please?” Eddie asks. 

Before Richie can answer, Stan calls out for him from inside the room. 

“Rich? Who is it? Come back here.” The words ring in his ears, and his stomach drops as he watches as Eddie’s face falters, the lines in his face hardening. 

“Oh. Uh, guess that’s a no,” Eddie says, backing away and turning towards the lift lobby. “’M sorry,” he huffs, walking away quickly. 

For once, Richie’s thankful for his mouth’s ability to work faster than his brain. “Eds, wait!” He calls out, his brain finally catching up. 

Eddie’s already halfway to the elevator. He stops momentarily, turning around, a smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. He waves a hand before turning back. “No, it’s okay Rich, have fun.” His voice wavers slightly, and the words come out biting and cold. Richie immediately wants to sink into the carpet beneath his feet. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hanging his head in what feels like shame.

“Shit!” Richie mutters, rubbing his temples with one hand. 

“Was that Eddie?” Stan’s voice comes from right behind Richie, and he jumps. He turns to see Stan standing behind him, already fully dressed with his arms crossed.

“Shit, you fucking scared me, dude,” Richie says, placing a hand against his chest. Stan rolls his eyes. 

“So, was that Eddie?” He repeats. 

“Uh, yeah, couldn’t sleep,” Richie says, coming up with an excuse. 

Stan hums, considering. And then he presses a clean towel into Richie’s hands. “Well, I’m gonna go. You should take a shower, go check in on him.” 

“I– what?” Richie asks, the emotional whiplash from both of them too much to handle at one go. His fingertips start to feel a bit numb. 

“This was fun, I had fun,” Stan says, sincerely. “And I hope you had fun too. But I think you have other things to take care of.” He squeezes past Richie, reaching for the exit. 

“Stan, fuck, I’m so sorry,” Richie stutters out, and Stan waves him off.

“Don’t be stupid, Richie. I’m serious, I had fun. No hard feelings,” then, with a wink, “Go get your man,” and then he’s out the door.

–––

Richie pounds on Eddie’s door, no answer. He tries again, and again. He leans his head against the door.

“Eds, c’mon man. I know you’re in there, please let me in,” Richie calls out, probably too loud for how late it is. He thumps his head once, twice, against the door, shutting his eyes and sighing. “I’m sorry,” he says, softer. Still no response. 

“I’m sorry!” He calls out louder, hoping Eddie would at least hear his apology through the door. If anything, that’s all he needs him to hear. The door swings open suddenly, and Richie almost tumbles forward into the hotel room. He hears an _oof_ , and feels two hands shoot out to his shoulders, stabilising him. 

“Woah, Rich, hey,” Eddie says. Richie wraps Eddie up tightly in his arms, breathing him in. Mumbles apologies over and over again into his hair. Eddie doesn’t say anything, just tucks his face into Richie’s neck, arms squeezing him around his waist. 

“Richie,” Eddie mumbles, leaning up and taking his face in his hands. “Hey, stop. Stop saying sorry.” He presses their foreheads together again, and Richie grips Eddie’s arms, as if he would disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. 

They stand there, middle of the hallway, just breathing each other in in silence. Eddie pulls on his hand silently, towards the large bed in the middle of the room. 

Richie stands awkwardly as Eddie makes himself comfortable on one side of the bed, and eventually gets dragged down to lie down next to Eddie. 

“I’m not gonna bite you,” Eddie says gently. Richie lies down on his back, and Eddie’s next to him, doing the same. The air is tense, thick, and Richie traces the gilded patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. He can feel the heat emanating off Eddie’s hand onto his. He swallows hard, thinks about how easy it would be to reach out and lace their fingers together again. He clenches his fist, and slowly lets go, cracking each knuckle with his thumb. 

“You ever wonder where it all went wrong?” Eddie blurts out, his voice slicing the silence in half. Richie turns his head to look at him; watches Eddie stare at the ceiling, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. He suppresses the urge to reach out and smooth it out with his thumb. 

“All the time, buddy,” Richie says. 

“I just, sometimes I feel like I did everything right, you know? The wife, the kids, the family, the fucking six-figure job–” 

“Nice flex. Very subtle.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Celebrity shithead,” Eddie huffs, before taking a deep breath through his nose. Richie almost laughs, makes another joke, but he keeps quiet, letting Eddie continue. “Like… like I made it, dude. Did everything I was supposed to. And I still feel so... So…” 

“Empty,” Richie says, his mouth once again working faster than the ability to not interrupt. “Sorry.” He mutters. 

“If you say sorry one more time, I’m gonna strangle you,” Eddie says, not unkindly. He sighs, turning his body to face Richie, and tucks his arm under his head. “But yeah. Empty. Like something’s missing. And then you realise something’s been missing the entire time, but it’s like, life’s good, y’know, stable. I just– I have everything. And I still feel like shit.” 

“You’re telling me,” Richie murmurs, and adjusts his body to mirror Eddie’s. “Sometimes… sometimes I feel like a plastic bag.” 

Eddie narrows his eyes at him, daring him to go on. 

“Drifting through the wind,” Richie continues, suppressing a giggle. 

“Is that Katy Perry? Are you fucking reciting Katy Perry to me right now?” 

“Wanting to start again,” Richie goes on, his entire body starting to shake with laughter. He keeps his eyes on Eddie’s gradually amused expression, feeling some kind of pride swell in his chest when Eddie twists his mouth, biting back a laugh. As he opens his mouth to continue his dramatic re-enactment, Eddie clamps a hand over his mouth. Richie’s eyes go wide, staring up at Eddie. Eddie’s almost pressed up against him, their faces close. Richie stares at the loose curl of hair flopping down onto Eddie’s face, soft and free from the awful pomade he slathers his hair in. He feels it then, the freezing burn of Eddie’s wedding band – _when did he put it back on?_ – searing into his lips. Another cold, solid reminder of their temporary affair. 

On some godforsaken impulse, Richie grabs Eddie’s wrist and sticks his tongue out, licking all the way up Eddie’s palm to the tip of his middle finger. Fire sparks deep in his gut when his tongue drags over Eddie’s ring, an interruption on the warm skin of his palm. Eddie yelps, tugging his hand away and using it to smack Richie’s chest instead, wiping Richie’s spit off onto his shirt. Richie cackles, and almost chases the feeling of Eddie’s hand on his chest; he wants to never let go of Eddie's wrist, wants to let his hands burn a hole in his chest, maybe several, all over his entire body. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Eddie hisses, with no bite to his words. His hand rests against Richie’s chest, unmoving. 

“Didn’t peg you for a Katy Perry guy, Eds,” Richie grins. “You know, she’s kinda cool, a little prissy, but hey, shiny celebrity skin, innit?” 

“I can’t believe you’re fucking namedropping in the middle of a serious conversation.” 

“Is that what this is?” Richie asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Is it not?” Eddie shoots back, lying back and crossing his arms over his chest. Leaving a burned handprint on Richie’s chest. 

A beat, and then, “No, but seriously, I get it,” Richie says. He clenches his fist into the pillow beneath his head, watching Eddie’s chest slowly move up and down, and slowly reaches out to touch Eddie’s wrist. Eddie looks at him, his eyes slightly glazed over with fatigue, and lets Richie tug him back into his position on his side. “I mean, look at me, I’m a walking stereotype of ‘fame and money can’t buy you happiness’,” he waves his hands dramatically. “I recite shitty comedy that I don’t write, or believe in. I live in fucking LA and I’m still not out.” 

“Gee, Rich, you competing with me now?” Eddie says, a gentle smirk tugging at his lips. 

Richie lets out a surprised laugh, pushing at Eddie’s shoulder. “Don’t use my words against me, you shit.” 

Eddie grabs his arm, cackling, and doesn’t let go. Leaves another burn, now wrapped snugly around Richie’s wrist. 

“You should write your own stuff,” Eddie says, when they’re calming down from their laugh fest. Their arms lie relaxed between them, pinkies just hooking over each other. 

“I tried. Manager doesn’t really like my stuff,” Richie explains. 

Eddie’s brows knit together. “Why not? You’re funny.” 

“Too _niche_ , apparently. Can’t bring in the big money bags.” 

“Fire him,” Eddie says, almost too seriously. Richie almost laughs. 

“Can’t. He’s too good to me, he takes care of me, y’know?” 

“So? You’ll find someone else. There’s always someone better.” 

Richie ponders over it for a while, deciding to pack the thought away for later. He meets Eddie’s tired gaze. And then, “Wait, you think I’m funny?” 

“Is that seriously your only takeaway from this?” 

“You’re feeding my ego, here. My head is gonna get so big, you have no idea.” 

“Okay, fucking Megamind,” Eddie snaps. Richie guffaws. 

The conversation lapses into a comfortable silence after that, with more eye contact than Richie’s normally used to. He desperately wants to make a joke, break whatever tension there is, because Eddie keeps _looking_ , and Richie feels stark fucking naked under his gaze. 

“What time is your flight tomorrow?” Eddie asks softly. 

“Late, like, 9pm. And guess what? I still haven’t packed so it works out in my favour,” Richie says, grinning at Eddie’s mildly horrified expression. “Hey, don’t shit your pants, I’m a master of last-minute packing.” 

Eddie grimaces. “That’s fucking abhorrent, Richie,” his voice is low, laced with fatigue. Richie smiles, watches as Eddie’s face softens and his eyelids droop slightly, fluttering close. His breath slowly evens outs, and Richie traces the soft lines of Eddie’s face with his eyes; the crease between his brows, the sharp squareness of his chin, the thin curve of his lips. He reaches out, strokes a thumb over Eddie’s cheek. Eddie lets out a soft _hrmph_ , leaning slightly into the touch, but never opens his eyes. 

Richie can feel his eyes slowly get heavier. He strokes his thumb once, twice, over Eddie’s cheek again, before leaning across to press a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“Goodnight, Eds,” he whispers, before turning to switch off the bedside lamp. Eddie snaps his arm out, grabbing Richie’s arm. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. “Please.” 

All the breath gets sucked out of Richie. Eddie opens a bleary eye, tugging Richie towards him. 

“Eds,” Richie whispers. Eddie shushes him, still pulling on his arm. Richie laughs, a little disbelieving, smacking Eddie’s hand lightly. “Eds, I’m just turning off the fucking light.” 

Eddie whines, but seems to relax, burying his face into his pillow. Richie lies back down after he switches the lamp off, his back to Eddie. Just as his body is about to drop off to sleep, he feels an arm snake lazily around his waist, pulling him closer. 

Richie’s breath hitches, and for a second he freezes, trying to resist at first. 

“Fucking, c’mere, you dick,” Eddie mutters grumpily, putting more force into pulling Richie towards him. Richie lets out a short soft laugh, relaxing into Eddie’s arms. He can feel Eddie’s warm breath against the back of his neck. The soft, barely there, press of his lips against the sensitive skin of his nape. Richie swallows hard, reaching for Eddie’s hand, lacing his fingers with his own. 

Eddie’s fingers tighten around his. “G’night, Rich.” 

He’s asleep in minutes.

–––

It’s the best sleep Richie’s had in months, dreamless and warm. He slowly wakes up, stretching and feeling his spine pop satisfyingly. Eddie stirs from where he’s pressed against Richie’s back, sleep-warm and pliant.

“Good morning,” Eddie says, his voice deep and sleep heavy. He unwraps his arm from Richie’s body to do a full body stretch. Richie rolls onto his stomach and plants his face into the soft blanket. It slowly sets in, that in a few hours he would be on a plane back to LA, leaving a part of himself here, in Tokyo. With Eddie. 

“Hrmph,” Richie mumbles into the quilt. Eddie laughs fondly, and Richie feels a hand carding through his hair, scratching lightly at the back of his head. It sends tingles down his spine. 

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, still cradling Richie’s head. “You need to get up soon, alright? Gotta pack for your flight.” 

Richie feels the tears coming again. He presses his face further into the blanket and shakes his head childishly. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, gentle but firm. “I’ll order room service, that okay with you?” Richie just nods. 

After a mostly silent breakfast of waffles, they head down to Richie’s room.

They don’t talk much, apart from Richie getting berated for not folding his clothes to pack them up. It results in him sitting there, telling Eddie which ones are clean and which are dirty, watching him meticulously fold his T-shirts and packing them up. 

He picks up a crumpled one and snorts. “You wear your own merch?” He holds it against himself and looks down at it.

“Hey! It’s an old one so it’s worn in and comfy, stop judging me. That one’s clean,” Richie protests, and something comes over him. “You should have it.” 

Eddie looks at him, wide eyed. Richie backtracks immediately. “Like, as a souvenir, or something. You did come to my show,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. 

“Rich,” Eddie says, cutting him off. “I– Thank you.” He folds it up and sets it aside. 

When they’re done, Richie takes a quick shower, changing into a thick jumper and sweatpants, ready for his flight. They spend the rest of the day chilling in bed, basking in each other’s presence, and lazily flipping through the limited channels on the TV. Eddie has an arm around Richie’s shoulders, tracing circles into it. 

Richie dozes off for a while, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder. The next thing he sees is Eddie crouched over him, shaking him awake. 

“Hey, sleepyhead. You just got a notification for your car,” Eddie whispers. “It’s coming in about 20 minutes.” 

Richie sits up, immediately awake, a sharp spike of panic shooting up his spine. “Shit, fuck. Eds, fuck, I’m so sorry.” _For wasting the last couple of hours we had together. For wasting your time._

Eddie shushes him, holding Richie against his chest and burying his face in his hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. Today was nice, yeah?” 

Richie sniffles, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and pressing his face into his shirt. Nods, trying not to lose it completely. 

“C’mon, you gotta get ready to go. You still gotta check out,” Eddie says, pulling away. He grabs a tissue from the nightstand, wiping Richie’s face. He’s tense, but strangely calm at the same time. Richie stands to get his suitcase, but Eddie’s there first, grabbing it for him, alongside the old tour shirt that Richie gave him. His stomach flip flops, and he does a final look over of his hotel room, patting down his pockets to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind. He follows behind Eddie, already waiting at the door. 

As Eddie’s about to open it, Richie grabs his wrist. Eddie stares at him, and Richie can see his stoic resolve start to crumble. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, his voice cracking. His eyes start to look shinier, and Richie grabs his face, pressing their foreheads together again, for the last time. 

“Thank you, Eds,” Richie whispers, not even trying to hold back his tears anymore. “For everything.” 

Eddie leans in first, pressing his lips against Richie’s. He’s warm, comfortable, and Richie melts into it, kissing him back with urgency. When they pull apart, Eddie’s cheeks are streaked with tears. Richie knows his are too. 

They wipe their faces quickly, composing themselves and making their way down to the lobby. The driver is already there after Richie checks out, shaking his hand and greeting him politely, taking his suitcase from Eddie to pack it into the trunk. 

Eddie gives him a gentle, sad smile, nodding his head towards the car. Richie extends his arms, giving Eddie a quick, awkward hug before walking towards the car. The driver starts the car, and Richie breaks out of his haze. 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. The driver looks at him in the rear-view mirror, confused. “I left something behind, I just gotta grab it real quick.” 

He runs back into the lobby, scanning the crowd for Eddie. He spots him, about to get into the lift, and shouts his name. Eddie snaps his head up in surprise, his eyes concerned. 

“Rich? Did you forg–” 

He’s cut off by Richie’s body slamming into his, wrapping him up in a hug. Richie buries his face into Eddie’s neck, breathing his scent in for the last time. Eddie barks a surprised laugh, and melts into it, letting Richie hold him. 

Richie pulls away, pressing a quick kiss to Eddie’s forehead. Eddie leans into it, and grabs Richie’s wrist. 

“Come to New York to do a show, asshole. Bring better material too,” Eddie says, sniffling, but he’s smiling. Richie laughs at that, and it gets caught in his throat. He nods. 

“I’ll be there, Eds,” Richie promises. 

“Go catch your flight,” Eddie whispers. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

Richie apologises to the driver once he’s back in the car, who just nods slightly, setting off out of the driveway. He waves at Eddie who’s standing there, watching him leave. He quickly sends a bunch of messages to Steve. Sends a goodbye text to Mike. Watches the bright lights of the city pass by him, sending him off. 

“See you soon, Eds,” he whispers to himself. A strange sense of hope holds him over the bumpy plane ride, until he's back in the throngs of LAX, getting swarmed by fans asking for pictures. As he smiles for the cameras it sets in, cementing itself in his gut, that he's really back here in his world and his life here. _The real world_ , Richie thinks, a little pathetically. But he holds on to them, Eddie's final words. A goodbye, a promise. He thinks it’s enough for him, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this dumb little fic. come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/crunchyseaweeds) or in the comments. if you’re here from my tumblr i’m a lot more active on twitter now, so if you wanna keep up with my shenanigans for some reason i’m there most of the time. 
> 
> the songs i listed in the karaoke scene are don’t dream it’s over by crowded house and head over heels by tears for fears. 
> 
> i also thought i’d provide some links to the places mentioned if you’re interested in reading more about them. the [cat park](https://www.tokyoweekender.com/2015/03/an-outdoor-cat-cafe-in-higashi-ikebukuro-central-park/) is a real thing, and when i visited the cats were absolute CHONKS because i went there in the winter. the ramen at [fuunji](https://www.tripadvisor.com.sg/Restaurant_Review-g14133713-d1679642-Reviews-Fuunji-Yoyogi_Shibuya_Tokyo_Tokyo_Prefecture_Kanto.html) absolutely slaps, and the one okonomiyaki place i went to was called [sakura tei](https://www.sakuratei.co.jp/en/) and it’s really nice and cosy and what i envisioned for their dinner with mike. here's the wiki page to the story behind [hachiko](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D), if you're interested too!


End file.
